Work Text:
August 1830.
“Rue d’Arras, isn’t it?” said Courfeyrac, puffing a bit in his haste. “One more street?”
“Yes, I think so.” Combeferre had pulled a bit ahead of him, glancing at the street signs anxiously, but trying not to draw attention from anyone nearby.
They were running late, but it had been unavoidable. The police were on alert for any suspicious activity after July, and the streets were still being repaired here and there, which meant they had been required to take a roundabout route to their destination, relying sometimes on blending into the crowd of other students in the Latin Quarter who were out that evening. Even citywide tumult and political upheaval did not stop these young men from going about their leisure time.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac were on their way to meet a small group of allies from the Polytechnique. The revolution had left as many holes and gaps in their contacts as physical ones in the streets. Their gunpowder supplier, already a skittish man who had been reluctant to work with students in the first place, had abandoned them without warning. Unwilling to allow the theft of their Republic to hinder the progress they had already made, Enjolras had hastily contacted the polytechniciens they already knew, to see what they could do for the Society. The polytechniciens, who had enthusiastically broken out of their school to man the barricades last month, were only too happy to continue aiding the cause and had readily agreed.
They had arranged to meet on the narrow, unassuming Rue d’Arras, which lay right alongside the Polytechnique and, so they had heard, had been the site of a little barricade some of the students had made there. The Friends had been assured the street would be empty, and as Combeferre and Courfeyrac presently halted at the northernmost end of it and peered around the corner, they immediately saw why. For one, it was almost forebodingly dark, having no working street lamps. For another, the remnants of the barricade were still there, and one of the adjacent buildings had been halfway blown to pieces. As damage had also been done to busier streets, this smaller one had been neglected in terms of repair. The barricade was mostly a pile of paving stones now, though there were still some large pieces of broken wood and Combeferre could see, tucked into a nook in the dilapidated wall of the destroyed building, barely visible, several small, cracked casks of gunpowder. No doubt they had been left over after the fighting, and been hidden to be retrieved at a later date.
“Do you see anyone?” Courfeyrac asked, looking around warily for any potential onlookers. “If they don’t show, we’ll have to wait another week before they’re allowed out again.”
Combeferre did not answer. He was straining his eyes, trying to see past the darkness of the building’s wrecked façade. He had thought for a moment that he had spotted a small, surreptitious movement within it. After glancing back at Courfeyrac, it was clear he had seen something as well.
“Do you think that’s them?” Courfeyrac squinted at the darkened rubble. “Keeping out of sight until we arrived?”
“I’m not sure.” Combeferre shook his head. “Why don’t you wait here to keep watch; I’ll go over and see.”
“Carefully.”
Combeferre stepped out from behind the corner and took a few tentative steps toward the rubble down the street. He could see no further movement in the darkness, and was just about to turn back when he heard a single footstep and saw the barest hint of metal shining in the darkness. He opened his mouth, about to call for whoever was there to show themselves, but before he could utter a word, the unmistakable click of a flintlock mechanism was heard, disproportionately loud in the surrounding quiet, and Combeferre’s only thought was that the flash from the gun would be much, much too near the gunpowder hidden in the wall.
The explosion was deafening. The walls of the building trembled with the force of it, parts of it collapsing further, debris flying everywhere. Something large hit Combeferre in the abdomen and he was flung backward hard onto the ground where he lay, stunned, the wind knocked out of him. Between the panic of being unable to draw breath and the almost overwhelming pain in his side, he welcomed the feeling of slipping into unconsciousness, but before he could pass out, someone yanked him to his feet and pulled him away from the street’s smoldering wreckage.
“No you don’t,” hissed Courfeyrac’s voice in his ear, more frightened and desperate than Combeferre had ever heard him. “No you don’t! You stay awake.”
Dazed, Combeferre tried his best to obey his friend, attempting to walk as Courfeyrac dragged him down one darkened alley, and then another, in too much pain to protest or even to recognize where they were. Despite the firm grip around his shoulders, he could feel Courfeyrac trembling uncontrollably against his side as they halted at the end of one street, waiting in the shadows for a group of tipsy students to pass in front of them before continuing on.
He tried to ask where they were going, and whether they might stop for a moment—he was desperately attempting to breathe properly—but could not manage it. The pain in his side was growing and though he tried with all his might, he could not stay awake any longer. He slumped against his friend. The last thing he heard before fainting was Courfeyrac’s muffled noise of distress and fear.
Joly’s words, peppered with scientific and medical jargon, seemed to be coming from a long way off. Enjolras stood, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and listened, not fully understanding. He had lowered his gaze. If he watched Joly’s gesticulating hands as he spoke, he was not required to look at Joly’s drawn expression, nor Courfeyrac, standing stiffly at his side, nor Combeferre, pale and unconscious in his bed.
“Three fractured ribs—on his left side, unluckily enough—though thankfully his heart appears to be undamaged. There are no bones displaced, either; that would have been much worse.”
“Well,” said Courfeyrac, his voice hoarse. “That isn’t so bad, is it? It- it could have been more serious.”
“It could have been, yes,” Joly replied. “Rib injuries are very painful, but they heal quickly enough. My concern is- is he might have a particular bruising to the lung, with the way he was hit—it’s too soon to tell, really. We can’t do anything more for him now; we will simply have to see how he fares. He needs rest most of all, and laudanum for the pain. I’ll stay the night, shall I? To look after him?”
There was a pause, and Enjolras realized the other two were waiting for his answer. He raised his eyes to Joly’s strained face. “I’ll do it.”
“Enjolras, but- He’ll need help,” said Joly, carefully. “With eating and the chamber pot and laudanum-“
“You may stay the night, of course, in case his condition changes. But I can do all of that.” Though he heard the clipped edge in his own voice, Enjolras found he could not care very much, even upon seeing Joly and Courfeyrac’s startled expressions. His throat was so tight he did not trust himself to say anything more.
“All- all right.” Joly twisted his fine gloves in his hands, looking completely out of his depth. “I’ll just run back to my flat to get my supplies, then—I’ll be back in an instant.”
Joly bustled off, and Enjolras watched Courfeyrac sit down heavily onto the little sofa in the center of the room, scrubbing at his face wearily. He had escaped the brunt of the explosion with nothing more than a few scratches, though he was covered in grime and his hair, usually set in meticulous curls, had been flattened out into limp, sweat-dampened waves. He had not only managed to support the unconscious Combeferre to Enjolras’ flat but, after hurriedly explained what had happened, had run out again immediately afterward in search of Joly. Their friend had been at the opera with Bossuet and a young women, and Courfeyrac had somehow managed to dash past all theater attendees and staff, find Joly in the audience, and bring him back while Bossuet went in search of the rest of their group to notify them about what had happened. Even with the odd, numb sensation throughout his body, Enjolras was impressed, and profoundly grateful.
“I shouldn’t have let him go off by himself,” Courfeyrac said finally, sinking lower in his seat. “We should have just waited a bit longer to see if the polytechniciens turned up, or came out searching for us. He might have been killed. I mean, just look at him.”
Enjolras couldn’t, but managed to say shortly: “It is a risk we all acknowledged when we began our work.” This was a simple truth—so simple that he had found no need to reflect upon the possibility that some, if not all of them, would eventually be faced with giving up their lives for the Republic. He had, instead, calmly accepted for years that he himself might one day be required to die—perhaps in some terrible, painful manner, if the bloodshed he had witnessed the previous month was any indication—would welcome it, even, if it meant bringing about the world they sought. Why, then, did he feel insincere, somehow, in voicing the notion aloud? Was it not true for Combeferre as much as for the rest of them? Enjolras took a constricted breath. “You did all you could, Courfeyrac.”
Courfeyrac shook his head and, unable to sit idly, rose and strode over to where Combeferre lay, hovering over him anxiously. “His breathing is so shallow. That’s not a good sign, is it?”
With great effort Enjolras looked over to the bed. Combeferre’s breathing was, indeed, very shallow and alarmingly rapid, his face drained of color. It was all Enjolras could do not to be sick. Instead, he swallowed thickly and crossed to the window to wait for Joly’s return. Watching him apprehensively, Courfeyrac had the air of wanting to say something more to him, but Enjolras shied from speaking again. Gaze lowered, he merely tightened his crossed arms over his chest once more, and remained silent.
In the pale blue-grey light of early morning, Enjolras woke to voices, and to sounds of distress. He stood sharply from the armchair in which he had been dozing and saw Joly bent over the bed in the corner, and Combeferre, awake now, coughing into a handkerchief.
“Courfeyrac.”
At Enjolras’ voice, Courfeyrac was awake and at his and Joly’s side in an instant. Though he flinched with every movement Combeferre was, at least, lucid enough to wave them off and say, between coughing weakly: “It’s all right! I’m fine.”
Even in the faint light, Enjolras could see something dark staining the handkerchief as Joly drew it away from Combeferre’s mouth. A flash of dread shot through him.
“Shh, here.” Joly had poured a dose of laudanum and was trying to hand the little glass to Combeferre. “Take this; you need help with the pain, and rest above all. And don’t protest,” he added, when it seemed as though Combeferre was about to refuse. “You know I’m right.”
Though he looked profoundly unhappy about it, Combeferre drank the bitter tincture, and it only took a few minutes for him to drop off to sleep again. The other three, too shaken to do the same, huddled around the sofa.
“It appears I was correct about the bruising on his lung,” Joly murmured, staring down at the bloody handkerchief still clutched in his hand. “With the location of his injury, I had suspected…”
“How serious is it?” Enjolras asked, so quietly he could hardly hear himself.
“It- Well, it depends.” Joly looked at him worriedly. “The condition is not terribly well known. It seems to present as coughing up blood and difficulty breathing—hardly treatable or unusual symptoms. Sometimes it’s fine, and the patient recovers in a week or two, but if the internal damage is more severe…” He trailed off.
“Could he not-“ Courfeyrac paused, in such a way that Enjolras realized his friend was attempting to be as tactful as possible. “Should he not go to a- an actual hospital? It would be a risk, but surely we could make up some story about how he was injured.” Joly frowned at him. “I do not mean to say you don’t know what you’re doing-“
“No, it’s not that,” Joly said, shaking his head. “It’s only, with his particular injuries, there is no treatment. He would be in bed resting in a hospital the same as if he stayed here—there’s nothing to do but wait, ensure he rests, and see if he improves. And I must say,” Joly added, giving Enjolras a kind nod. “I’d be more comforted being in a friend’s apartment in that case.”
Despite the warm sentiment directed at him, Enjolras felt hollow. “There is nothing we can do,” he whispered. His initial thought was that this was all deeply unfair but—of course it was. He knew—firsthand now, after the events of the previous month—how innately horrid it was that violence and death were required to bring about a just society or, he thought bitterly, to attempt to. He and Combeferre had discussed this, debated this time and time again, even before July, and in the past few weeks he could not have pushed the notion from his mind if he tried. Sitting and working alone in the evenings, it was the foremost subject in his thoughts.
Now what he found he wanted, more than anything, was to be alone—alone, to think, though this wish was profoundly unwise. Despite his initial certainty that he would be able to care for Combeferre—that he himself should be the one to do so, regardless of all rationality—it was infinitely more prudent that his friends were present to help. They had knowledge and talents he did not, and if something happened to Combeferre that Joly might have prevented…
Refusing to acknowledge the rest of this idea, Enjolras made a gesture to cover his face with his hands, but stopped himself, instead resting them on his knees, fingertips wrinkling the fabric of his trousers. Perhaps noticing this—though surely, Enjolras thought, there was hardly anything to notice—Courfeyrac reached out briefly to touch his shoulder. Enjolras relaxed slightly despite himself.
“What happened anyway, Courfeyrac?” Joly asked, glancing between them. “I know you and Combeferre were set to meet the polytechniciens, but did they do this? Even by accident?”
“No,” said Courfeyrac. “That is to say: it wasn’t an accident. Someone was in the dark, aiming to shoot at Combeferre, but didn’t realize there was gunpowder hidden so near to them. It just seems so unlikely that it was one of the polytechniciens. They were only too eager to help our side fight a few weeks ago.”
“Yes. And if it had been one of them, they would have known the powder was there,” Enjolras added. “It was their barricade; they are the ones who hid it. Even if one of them has turned from our side and was attempting to-“ He cleared his throat. “They would not have risked themselves in the effort.”
There was a heavy silence. Outside, the sky was lightening further as the sun rose. Joly glanced over his shoulder at it.
“I have morning rounds at six,” he said reluctantly. “And lectures at half past ten, though I suppose I could skip those today.”
“No, perhaps it's better if you go. Make an excuse for Combeferre’s absence,” said Enjolras. “He- he wouldn’t want his studies hindered.”
Joly gave a small smile, but it faltered. “All right. He’ll hopefully sleep peacefully for most of the day. If he does wake, do try to get him to eat something.” He rose from the sofa and pulled on his coat. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Joly says I have a pulmonary contusion.”
Enjolras looked up sharply from the plate of bread and cheese he was picking at, that Courfeyrac had cajoled him into eating despite the leaden knot in his stomach. It was just past midday and, though he had been unconscious since before sunrise, coughing in his sleep now and then, Combeferre had cracked his eyes open.
“You have three broken ribs and a bruised lung,” said Courfeyrac, perching at the edge of the bed and smiling. “But I’m glad to see you’re not completely far gone.”
“The bruised lung—that’s what I meant.” Combeferre’s words were a bit slow and muffled due to the lingering effects of the laudanum, but he tried to sit up, and flinched from the pain. Courfeyrac put a hand on his shoulder to still him. “A pulmonary contusion—it’s fascinating. I persuaded Joly to attend Dupuytren’s lecture about it with me—not that Dupuytren first described the condition, but- but he did name it.” He turned his head and, upon seeing Enjolras in the corner, smiled blearily over at him.
Plainly amused, Courfeyrac turned to look at Enjolras as well, but Enjolras frowned as Combeferre continued speaking: “It’s a particular type of lung bruising, where the overlying tissue is undamaged. The broken ribs shouldn’t count, I don’t think-“ He broke off, coughing again. Courfeyrac hastily handed him another handkerchief, which was quickly stained red like the first.
“Hush.” Enjolras stood and poured out a dose of laudanum, which had been left on the bedside table, and pointedly ignored the reproachful look Courfeyrac was giving him. “It’s important that you rest.”
Combeferre was clearly taken aback. “I know, but- I thought you might be interested,” he said quietly, wiping his mouth and taking the glass Enjolras gave him. “You usually are. Or at least, you usually listen.”
Something clenched in Enjolras’ chest, but he chose not to respond, setting some bread and cheese on the nightstand instead. “You might eat something as well.”
“Fine.” Combeferre looked as though he did not know whether to be dejected or vexed. “If you don’t want to hear about Dupuytren you- you could still just sit with me for a bit. We haven’t said a word to each other since-“
“That is because you need to sleep and recover,” Enjolras said, with a deliberate effort to speak more gently. From the hurt expression that crossed Combeferre’s face, he knew immediately that he had not succeeded.
Guilt twisted inside of him but rather than saying anything more, Enjolras returned to his seat, feeling as though he would rather have left the flat entirely. He heard Courfeyrac inch closer to the bed and say something quietly to Combeferre, in a more comforting tone than he himself could apparently manage. Combeferre glanced past Courfeyrac to look at him. Enjolras stared down at his half-finished plate of food, and tried not to notice.
It was only after Combeferre had eaten a few bites of bread and fallen asleep again that Enjolras dared look back at him. He was still quite pale and his breathing, though it remained worryingly shallow, had slowed somewhat. What startled Enjolras more, however, was the fierce scowl Courfeyrac was now giving him.
“What harm would it have done,” Courfeyrac said, rising and striding over to stand over Enjolras’ chair, “to simply sit with him for a moment or two, if he wanted it? If it would make him feel a bit better? I don’t understand—you were upset this morning at the prospect of just waiting to see how he does, but now you order him to eat and go to sit as far away as possible.”
“I know. I know I-“ This time Enjolras did bury his face in his hands, if only for a moment, and when he looked up again, Courfeyrac’s anger had been replaced with concern.
“Enjolras. What is it?”
“I merely-“ He took a slow breath. “I merely need time to- to think.”
He knew this was not a sufficient reply but Courfeyrac, to Enjolras’ relief, did not point this out. “Think about what?”
“About…” He raised a hand, unthinkingly, to clench at the shirt fabric over his chest as his gaze strayed over to the bed.
Courfeyrac stared at Enjolras for a long moment, then followed his line of sight to where Combeferre lay sleeping. He raised his eyebrows. “I see. Well, why can’t you think about it?”
Why, indeed. It was rare that Enjolras felt foolish, but in attempting to answer, he certainly did now. “With- with Combeferre here, and like this-“ His voice sounded profoundly ineloquent to his own ears. “Courfeyrac, I don’t-“
“No.” Courfeyrac smiled a little, and shook his head. “No, I understand what you mean. You- you need to think.”
The second day after the ill-fated meeting, Combeferre did not wake at all. At first, it seemed as though it was merely due to the laudanum he had taken the previous night, but at midday, his breathing was labored rather than merely shallow, his lips tinged blue.
Upon seeing this, Enjolras’ fist involuntarily closed on his open shirt collar, to match the cold clench of horror there. “Find Joly.” Their friend had left again for hospital rounds and class that morning, since Combeferre had been stable, if pained, the previous day.
Courfeyrac hovered at the threshold to the flat, staring at Combeferre, clearly not wanting to leave him in this state. Enjolras looked at him severely. “Courfeyrac, please.”
His sharp tone snapped Courfeyrac out of his hesitation, and he swept out of the room without even bothering to grab his coat.
Enjolras sank down onto the edge of the bed, watching desperately for any signs of consciousness from Combeferre and finding none. He grasped his friend’s limp hand in both of his own and stilled as he realized he could, at least, feel a strong pulse, however rapid, beneath his fingers. His own heart beating uncomfortably fast, Enjolras pressed the hand to his cheek. Combeferre still did not stir.
Now that he had finally gotten his wish to be left alone for a moment, Enjolras found that rather than sorting his thoughts, he could not think about anything at all, too unwilling to confront whatever he might uncover when faced with Combeferre in this state. Instead he sat, and pressed his cheek to Combeferre’s hand, and lost track of the passing minutes until Courfeyrac and Joly burst into the room at last.
Joly strode quickly over to the bedside, and Enjolras was obliged to release Combeferre’s hand.
“Here—help me with him,” Joly said. “Perhaps if he’s a bit more upright. Oh, I wish I had brought my compass for this! I could have properly aligned the bed…”
Together, they managed to rearrange Combeferre’s position so he was lying propped up by pillows beneath his head and shoulders, and then watched him anxiously. Enjolras’ hand had found its way into Combeferre’s again, and he listened hard for any change in his breathing. Though it may have been wishful thinking on his part, Enjolras thought there might have been a slight improvement.
“That’s all we can do for him now,” said Joly. “It helps me breathe, at least, when I’m feeling-“
There was a knock at the door, and Joly broke off, all three of them turning their heads to look at it.
“Oh God,” said Courfeyrac, in a hushed voice. “I hope that’s not your landlady, Enjolras. She always seemed a distrustful sort to me.”
Enjolras silently motioned for the other two to stand on the opposite side of the room, where they would be less visible if he cracked the door open. Their caution was unneeded, however. On the other side of the door was not the landlady, but a gamin. The child peered at Enjolras almost suspiciously. He was clutching a twice-folded slip of paper in his hands.
“Are you Monsieur Enjolras?”
“Yes.”
The gamin hesitated, then held out the note. “A fellow in a black and red suit slipped this to me. I don’t think he could get out from behind his gate.” Enjolras, understanding this immediately, took the note. The child did not leave. “The man said if I did well, I could have a reward.” He puffed out his chest slightly. “I made my delivery right away. And that man already gave me a few sous before I even did it,” he added proudly, as though to prove he was singularly worthy of being rewarded.
“And a reward you shall have,” said Courfeyrac, who had come out from around the door as soon as he heard the child’s voice. Presently, he was digging in his waistcoat pockets for spare coins, which he found and handed to the gamin. “Oh, and perhaps a macaron or two? Enjolras, you still have some left over from what I brought here last week, don’t you?” Enjolras nodded, and the child’s face lit up.
After the gamin had been loaded up with sweets and sent on his way, Courfeyrac and Joly huddled close to Enjolras as he opened the folded paper. The note, in a hand Enjolras recognized as belonging to his primary correspondent at the Polytechnique, said merely this:
Apologies for absence night before last. Over-enthusiastic members of G.N. in the area. We will speak another time.
“‘G.N’?” Joly asked.
“Gendarmerie nationale,” said Enjolras, remembering what Courfeyrac had told him about the mysterious gunman.
“Well, one less over-enthusiastic gendarme now,” said Courfeyrac darkly. “It was impossible he got out of there alive, the fool. He deserved it. How underhanded, to shoot at an unarmed man from the shadows!”
“Corruption in the gendarmerie under Charles X, and the same under Louis-Philippe,” Enjolras said. “But at least it seems our allies in the Polytechnique remain steadfast.”
“They might have warned us, though,” Courfeyrac replied, agitated. He flopped down on the sofa in a huff. “A letter days later does us very little good.”
“It’s difficult for them to meet with other students,” said Joly bracingly, sitting down beside Courfeyrac and placing a hand on his shoulder. “They do not have the freedoms we do, with their strict curfews and only being allowed out on Wednesdays. It’s worth it though, I think, to keep speaking with them. They are all dreadfully intelligent, and they agree with our cause—such good allies to have!”
The gamin’s appearance and the polytechniciens’ note had provided a welcome distraction, but it had been short-lived. In turning around to set the note on his desk, Enjolras caught sight of Combeferre. His head had lolled to one side, and Enjolras went over to readjust the pillows. From the sofa, Courfeyrac, sounding a bit more cheerful now, said: “‘Dreadfully intelligent.’ What a term, Joly. Dreadfully! Combeferre would admonish you for using such a descriptor-“
Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed. Perhaps he had been correct; Combeferre’s breathing did seem to be rather less labored than it had been, but his lips were still blue and Enjolras could hear a faint crackling sound on the inhale, as though blood remained in his lungs.
Something in Enjolras’ chest ached and, as miserable as he felt, it took him a moment before he realized exactly what it was. Uneasy, feeling as though he was the one struggling to draw breath, he wondered if this feeling, this tenderness, would have arisen had he been sitting alongside any other injured friend. Almost without thinking, he lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from Combeferre’s forehead. From the silence behind him, he gathered that Joly and Courfeyrac were watching what he was doing. Suddenly overly aware of the summer heat, which was odd, as it usually did not trouble him, Enjolras reached over to the nightstand to pour out a glass of water. Surely Combeferre would need it, if he woke…
He barely noticed how badly his hands were shaking until water splashed down his trouser leg. Then, Courfeyrac was beside him at once, taking both cup and pitcher from his hands, and pulling him into an embrace.
“He’ll be all right,” Courfeyrac said into his shoulder. “Look, he is doing better already. He’ll be awake and arguing with us about staying in bed in a day or two—you’ll see.”
Enjolras found he was unable to say anything in response. His vision had suddenly blurred, but he blinked it away and shakily wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac in turn.
Two days later, Enjolras discovered he was becoming accustomed to watching the thin rays of light of the early morning slowly brighten the room before dawn. After that one frightening day, Combeferre had improved markedly, though during the few hours he was awake, he was groggy from the laudanum and peevish from being constantly pressed to eat when he did not want to and, true to Courfeyrac’s prediction, to stay in bed when he wanted to get up. He had also taken to casting Enjolras looks of irritation from across the room, every one of which Enjolras knew he probably deserved.
Despite these apparent signs of recovery Enjolras still slept in fits and starts. Presently, he was sitting wide-awake in his armchair even as Joly and Courfeyrac were both sleeping soundly on the sofa and at the desk, respectively. Almost as if he sensed this, Combeferre stirred. Enjolras sat up straight, watching him cautiously.
“You’re awake,” came the weak voice from the bed.
“Yes.”
Combeferre tried to sit up.
“Don’t do that. You will injure yourself further,” said Enjolras, but his words were met with an impatient huff.
“I can’t injure myself further by sitting up,” Combeferre said, though his face was strained. “That isn’t how pulmonary contusions work.”
“You also have three broken ribs. Is that not how broken bones work?”
“You know,” said Combeferre, struggling to push himself upright again, his voice tinged with indignation now. “Why is it whenever I am awake, you-“ He flinched in pain, and Enjolras stood up, concerned, but Combeferre continued, haltingly: “You are all the way across the room, just- just sitting there.” Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, but Combeferre cut him off, his breathing coming sharp and fast: “I am at my wits’ end. I know when you are upset about something. What is it? Is it that we didn’t succeed in meeting the polytechniciens?” He was almost gasping now, with both pain and agitation. “Or- or that we were apparently spotted by a gendarme? You barely look at me, so it must be something.”
“No, it’s not that,” Enjolras said, walking swiftly to the bed to quiet Combeferre and get him to lie back again. Combeferre swatted his hands away. The movement seemed to wrench his injuries, and he himself recoiled, clutching his side.
Enjolras reached out to help him again. “Combeferre-“
“Please answer me.”
“You need rest. We can-“
“That is the only thing you say to me whenever I wish to speak with you!”
Enjolras just looked down at him, and watched regret creep into Combeferre’s irritated expression. “I- I’m sorry,” he continued. He looked as wretched as Enjolras felt. “But Enjolras, you- you know even just your presence is a comfort to me in all-“ He broke off, and Enjolras swallowed painfully.
“It’s not that you did not succeed, or that you were spotted, or anything of the sort. I have been distant, I know, but-“ Enjolras paused, and dropped his gaze. “It would be better to discuss this tomorrow. I- I have been wanting to think, to decide and- and to come to terms without outside influences-“
“‘Outside influences.’ You mean me.”
It was Enjolras’ turn to wince. “It was selfish, I know-”
“Enjolras.” Combeferre sighed, exasperated, though his voice was far gentler now. Enjolras broke off, surprised by it. “Your rational approach to many subjects is admirable, but you- you cannot experience the world, and people, and- and any feelings towards them-“ He gave Enjolras a look that seemed almost hopeful, and Enjolras marveled for a moment at the warmth that spread throughout his own chest. “-in a vacuum. As if it was all part of some logical exercise.”
“It’s only, with you here, and injured-“ Enjolras paused again, to allow the lump in his throat to ease. Combeferre rested his hand on his arm. “I apologize. I was wrong to think this. We will speak tomorrow, when we are more at liberty. I’ll send Courfeyrac and Joly home to sleep, and we’ll have some time alone.”
“All right,” said Combeferre, though his acquiescence was a reluctant one. “Tomorrow.”
Enjolras handed him another dosage of laudanum. “I’ll sit with you, as you fall back asleep.”
Though he still seemed slightly peeved, Combeferre smiled a little at this and, after downing the laudanum, finally settled back against the pillows. Temporarily set more at ease, Enjolras sat still and quiet beside him as he drifted off again. He had left his hand on Enjolras’ arm.
True to his promise, Enjolras requested that Joly and Courfeyrac return to their lodgings to get a few hours of proper rest the next day. They both agreed, but although Combeferre’s condition had improved significantly, Joly was still disinclined to leave.
“I- I know he’s getting better,” Joly said softly. “But what if he takes a turn, like the last time I wasn’t here?”
“I won’t take a turn,” said Combeferre from the bed. He still sounded quite unwell, but the color had returned to his face, and he did not seem to be pained by every breath. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but now you should really go and get some sleep.” Joly frowned, skeptical. “I’ll be fine.”
“Come, Joly,” added Courfeyrac. “You will fall ill yourself if you don’t get some rest. Enjolras, you’ll come find us if anything happens?”
“Yes, of course.”
Somewhat more convinced, Joly bid them goodbye, but Courfeyrac lingered on the threshold for a moment longer. Whether he had overheard Enjolras and Combeferre’s whispered conversation the previous night, or whether this was another instance of Courfeyrac picking up on the faintest of subtleties, Enjolras did not know, but he was still grateful for Courfeyrac’s knowing smile, and the reassuring press to his hand.
Having shut the door behind his friends, Enjolras turned to face Combeferre. He was propped up on the pillows, looking expectant. Enjolras sat down at the edge of the bed, facing him, but did not speak immediately. Combeferre's expression quickly became one of impatience.
“Well? We’ve already established that you’ve been upset, and that this is the reason you’ve been distant with me,” he prompted. “Care to tell me why?”
Though he tried to say something, Enjolras’ throat had become tight again. It took a long moment of effort, yet the only words he could get out were: “You might have died.”
There was a pause, and it pressed heavily on the pair of them. Clearly, this had not been the answer Combeferre was anticipating, and it took him another moment to grapple with his own reply.
“Well. Well, yes.” Combeferre looked at him, bewildered, but somehow his hand has found its way into Enjolras’ all the same. “Any of us might die at any time for our work. You know this better than anyone.”
When Enjolras did not respond, Combeferre sighed and continued: “Yes, all right. I might have died. It might have happened to any of us if you had sent them on that errand instead of me. Is this what is troubling you? We took a great risk by meeting so soon after what occurred in July, and at such a location, but it was necessary. Haven’t you told me time and time again? It is always necessary. So yes, I might have died but it-“
Enjolras’ vision had become blurred again as Combeferre spoke, but this time he could not blink it away. A hot tear rolled down his cheek, and then another, and Combeferre stopped speaking, looking as though he regretted every word. “God. Enjolras, I-“
“I- I have taken for granted,” Enjolras managed to say, wiping his face on his sleeve, “something which is not a certainty at all.”
“I don’t-“ Combeferre shook his head and grasped Enjolras’ hand more firmly. “Enjolras, please- I don’t understand.”
“Yes. We all might die. You yourself might die.” Enjolras’ voice was barely above a whisper. “But not without me.”
Something like comprehension dawned on Combeferre’s face, and Enjolras hoped with all his might that Combeferre somehow understood whatever unnamable emotion was curled tight in his chest. There were frequently times, after all, when they communicated much better without words.
Enjolras leaned forward to tuck his face into the crook of Combeferre’s shoulder, taking deep, steadying breaths, breathing in the soft scent of linens and the sharp one of blood, and something else, warmer and more pleasant. He felt Combeferre’s hand move to stroke at his hair, just once, and then caress his arm, a wholly comforting sensation.
It seemed only natural, then, that Enjolras shift to kiss Combeferre’s cheek, though he had never done so before, and, when Combeferre turned his head, lips parted, Enjolras knew at once what he wanted. Gently, he pressed their lips together, fingertips brushing along Combeferre’s jaw lightly, avoiding touching him anywhere else, lest he cause him more pain. Inexpert though the kiss was, he felt Combeferre sigh and smile into it, and was obliged to break it off all too soon, overwhelmed, to rest his head on Combeferre’s shoulder again.
A long while later, when Enjolras at last felt he was able to draw back, Combeferre gave him a watery smile. He reached up to touch Enjolras’ face, running his thumb across his cheek, wiping the remaining wetness away. Enjolras closed his eyes and pressed into the touch gratefully.
“That’s not something you’ve done before.”
Even without looking, Enjolras could still hear the smile in Combeferre’s breathless voice, and he himself smiled in turn. “It isn’t, no.”
Combeferre’s fingers wove into his hair gently, carding through the strands at the nape of his neck, and Enjolras gave a pleasurable shiver. “Perhaps you ought to practice, then.”
Enjolras opened his eyes to see Combeferre’s soft, hopeful expression, and smiled a bit wider. “Perhaps I ought to,” he said and, taking the hint graciously, found he was more than content to lean down once more.